


The Bounty

by wyldehart



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Action/Adventure, Anal Sex, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Romance, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-05-01
Updated: 2012-05-12
Packaged: 2017-11-04 16:01:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/395611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wyldehart/pseuds/wyldehart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dyllard was in it for the money. Catch one elf, turn him in, get paid. It should have been that simple but when the bounty is Zevran Arainai, nothing is simple. When Zevran chooses to seek revenge on Dyllard's employer, he initially goes along with him because he is asked to, not knowing that eventually, his heart would want him to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Captive

The Bounty  
  
Three big humans, one dwarf, two dogs, ten bladed weapons, three bows, four quivers of arrows, some of them poisoned, three tents (one was shared), four packs of supplies, (plus one containing several daggers, some bottles of poison, a book of erotica and a tattoo kit) four horses and one helpless, captured former Antivan Crow. All in all, terrible odds if said Crow desired his freedom, which he certainly did. The dogs alone were formidable enough but one look at the humans’ leader, a massive specimen of masculine beauty with bright, scarlet hair that ran just below his well-formed posterior and heavy-lidded blue eyes that were always watching him.  
  
Had they met under more conventional circumstances, Zevran might have been tempted to bed the man but, alas, the big human seemed as immune to his sensual charms as he was to Zevran’s attempts at conversation. “So, my large friend, is it common to starve your prisoners where you’re from or might I have a few last meals before your employer kills me?” the elf asked from where he sat on the ground, shirtless, unarmed with his hands bound tightly behind his back and a heavy chain binding him to a tree.  
  
The human grunted, reached for the discarded remains of his own meal and threw the bones at Zevran’s feet. The former crow sighed and shook his head. “Tsk, tsk, tsk… That is hardly what I would refer to as food and were there anything left to consume, I am still, nonetheless, helplessly bound and unable to feed myself.”  
  
Dyllard sighed, walked over to the fire and removed a tender, spitted squirrel from where it roasted above the flames. He then placed one end of the spit between Zevran’s knees and squeezed them tightly around it to hold it in place. In a voice that was low, soft and rough, he said, “Eat or starve but you will receive no more courtesy than that.”  
  
Zevran watched the man walk back to the stump in front of his tent and resumed sharpening his blade. With another heavy sigh, he leaned over his “meal” and ate the meat off the small bones. Why did the mercenary have to be one of the mean kind, he wondered as he allowed the bones to fall to the ground under his knees, his stomach growling insistently for more. He groaned in agony, curious if by not feeding him they were deliberately keeping him weak. If that was so, it was working.  
  
Eventually, the pain in his belly subsided and he watched Dyllard again, as was his habit since he had so little to occupy himself. “Sooo… Tell me, o’ captor of my body, what do you plan to do with me now that you have me?” Zevran asked as he shifted his weight to his other hip. Not that he minded being bound but only under certain circumstances was it enjoyable. The position he was in against the tree was tiring and things were growing numb as his weight pressed into the ground. This time, it was his ass and that is not a pleasant experience, especially when the sensation rushed in like an army of angry needles.  
  
For once, unlike other times when Zevran had ventured to ask, Drevin Dyllard decided to reply in his rough voice. “I plan to turn your ass in and collect my pay for me and my men. Once the exchange is done, we’ll be swimming in coin; you’re worth a small fortune.”  
  
Zevran winced and tried to look suave as he leaned against the tree. “So I hear. Say, what if I were to, oh, strike an alternative deal for you, hmm? I could double what my bounty is. Maybe add some, ahem, pleasure to the deal? Sex with a Crow, even a former Crow, I have heard, has a certain appeal for even the most heartless souls. You are, after all, a mercenary and mercenaries like money… and sex…”  
  
“Even for triple your bounty, I’m not going against the man who hired me. He has connections to the Crows himself and crossing them when they have the backing of the Guild is unwise. And I do not have sex with my captives,” growled the otherwise taciturn human.  
  
Zevran was not surprised by the answer though he had had his hopes. Curious, he asked, “But you would have sex with me if I were not your captive?”  
  
“My preference is for women, elf,” Dyllard growled.  
  
“I have been known to change that in men…” the elf said slyly. “It would be horrible to die without feeling a man’s embrace one last time,” Zevran breathed dramatically.  
  
Dyllard shook his head and considered gagging the annoying knife-eared man but decided against it as he continued to sharpen his blade. Eventually, the song of the crickets, frogs and the wind lulled Zevran to an uneasy sleep. While he rested, he dreamed about his freedom, a certain Grey Warden and his blades… How Zevran wished he could have his blades again. They were in the possession of one of the men, a disgusting fellow with a pointed chin and rotting teeth who enjoyed pleasuring himself in front of the elf. Even closing his eyes could not block out the little smacking sounds of the man’s hand as it worked his cock directly in front of Zevran.  
  
Dawn arrived and chased away the early morning fog that had settled across the forests that filled the central Free Marches. Like he did every morning for the past several days, Zevran awoke sore, wet and shivering in the early morning gloom. A day ago, they had finally crossed the Minanter River, north and east of Starkhaven and were now better than half-way to their goal. For ten days, they had been traveling and for ten days, Zevran cringed each dawn as the men roughly shoved around their manacled prisoner as they detached him from the tree.  
  
As camp was broken, the elf cleared his throat and looked over at the men’s big, broad-shouldered leader. Drevin raised an inquiring eyebrow as Zevran smiled awkwardly at him. “I know the timing of my request is poor, however, nature being the forceful bitch that she is, I find myself in need of relieving myself. Preferably not in my pants, if you don’t mind. The smell… For you and I…” Zevran shuddered and watched as the big man stalked over to him and jerked the elf’s pants down to his ankles before walking back to his tent and continued dismantling it.  
  
Zevran cleared his throat again. “Ah, I see. So, while my hands are tied behind my back, I shall disgrace us all with the scent of my own piss as it ferments in my boots.”  
  
Drevin looked at his men and frowned as they each shook their heads. Someone even muttered that the elf could piss down his leg all he wanted as long as they got paid for him. “Who decided to tie his hands behind his back, eh?” the leader barked to them.  
  
“You did, sir, after ‘e grabbed that dagger from Vorshe’s pouch while ‘e was fuckin’ that bit outside Starkhaven. You were drunker’n Vorsh that night but still sharp as steel. That was two days ago,” replied a broad-shouldered surface dwarf as he shouldered his pack and walked over to the smallest of the four horses.  
  
The big mercenary turned back to Zevran, his arms crossed menacingly. “So… For two days you’ve held your piss in?”  
  
Zevran managed a weak smile as he explained, “I have been… creative, sir.”  
  
“So, you have now run out of creativity? Or you just want someone to hold your cock?” Dyllard snapped.  
  
The elf smiled and bowed slightly. “My creativity has depended largely on the flexibility of my body, which is now cramped and sore. Were my hands freed and I allowed to stretch out, my naturally acrobatic nature would surely return but, alas, I am to be treated like a pig for slaughter without even the dignity of being allowed to relieve myself properly.”  
  
Rolling his eyes, Dyllard walked over to Zevran once again and grabbed his cock in his big hand and waited while Zevran willed himself to pee despite the indignity of his situation. Ah, but when you must, you simply must, thought the elf as he finally released his bladder. The human was impressed to find that, even soft, Zevran’s cock was long and thick, with an echo of his facial tattoos running along either side of the big member. It was even pierced just under the head, a horizontal loop of gold near the hole. “You let someone to tattoo your cock, elf? Must’ve been painful.”  
  
Zevran stood up and squared his shoulders proudly. “Most of my body is decorated with markings, my big friend. Should you like to see them sometime, I would be happy to show you.” Dyllard grunted though he did not stop looking at Zevran’s thick appendage. Smiling, the elf added, “The cock tattoo was especially trying but I had the pleasure of a huge erect penis in my mouth for most of it so time went by swiftly. You may not be aware but a tattoo on your cock requires you to maintain a long period of sexual arousal, a feat I am most skilled at. It is also very attractive to others.”  
  
Dyllard made a face and walked away, leaving the elf naked, his pants about his ankles and a sigh upon his lips. “Must you mistreat me so?” Zevran complained.  
  
“Hike his pants up, one of you. I’m done dealing with him. Until he fills my purse, I want nothing to do with him. Damned elf…” Dyllard grumbled as he finished breaking down his tent. Vorsh ambled over, without his dagger in reach, and yanked Zevran’s breeches up so hard and fast that they created a deep wedge between his ass cheeks. He yelped and shot the cruel man a dark glare as he did his best to wiggle them back down to a comfortable position on his body.  
  
The small group struck a north-easterly route along the river before eventually heading north. The goal was Rialto and it was there the exchange would take place and Dyllard and his men could retire for a while as wealthy men. There was still a bit of land between them and their goal but every step drew them nearer, much to their captive’s dismay.  
  
Zevran, for his part, was becoming fearful for his life. Tied by his neck to the middle horse, he pondered the reality that the Crows might not wait for Dyllard to collect his bounty and might kill Zevran before reaching the city. Antiva was a dangerous place for him these days since leaving the Crows some six years earlier. It was remarkable how personally they seemed to take the death of their Guild Master when what the Crows dealt with was killing despots and the like.  
  
There had been few as despicable as the Crows’ former Guild Master and killing him had been a pleasure for Zevran.

 

TBC...


	2. The Ambush

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nothing naughty yet. Zevran's about to get back a little of his ego...

Dreams of men in sheer drapes flittered through Zevran’s mind even as rocks bit into his hip and his thigh grew numb from his weight pressing down on it. Sometimes he opened his eyes and caught one of his captors peering down at him and sometimes he would open them and behold a cock being thrust in his face. He didn’t mind the cock though he preferred the circumstances of the thrusting be under more welcome circumstances. As it was, he found it quite grotesque.  
  
Dyllard’s voice was heard at one point ordering the Dwarf, Skorn, to stand at his post and not fall asleep, as was the dwarf’s habit. Already, he was drunk and reaching for more of his potent brew. How he managed to stay on his feet at all baffled the elf to no end. It must have been a Dwarf thing, Zevran decided with a shrug as he shifted his weight once again.  
  
Skorn, he knew, was always first due to his penchant for falling asleep at his post. Since most things happened later, Dyllard placed the dwarf’s watch first. However, this night things would change. This night, the bad things would happen early because sometimes, enemies are smart and observant and they know just when to strike…  
  
The former assassin heard a grunt in the direction of the watch-post and looked up, his golden-brown eyes wide at the four black-garbed bodies that descended upon the small camp. He didn’t need to see the Dwarf’s slumped over form to know he would not be able to sound an alarm. Skorn was dead and now they were approaching the two tents that contained the remaining sleeping men.

  
Zevran screamed out a warning.

  
Dyllard stepped outside his tent, shaking his fist at the elf but when he realized they were being ambushed, he balled that fist and slugged it into the nearest face it came into contact with. One of the black-clothed assassins reemerged from the tent holding the lovers was covered in blood, her task complete. She spotted her companion lying on the ground with a severe facial injury and lunged at Dyllard, her dripping dagger positioned for a stab to his gut. He deftly avoided her attack and slammed his arm against her throat.

  
“Dyllard! Now might be a moment where you ignore my status as your prisoner and fetch me my daggers, no?” Zevran said as someone started using a lock-pick on this chain.

  
Dyllard grunted as he avoided the woman’s blade again. “You’ll run or kill me…” the man growled, his body slamming to the ground and rolling before the elf to avoid his attacker. The woman was becoming sloppy in her attacks as she grew more angry.

  
“I vow as your prisoner that I will only kill these idiots!” Zevran snapped.

  
Dyllard turned for a moment before dodging the dagger and pulled up Zevran’s hands as the chain was released. The dagger sliced right through, severing the ropes and freeing the elf’s hands. He leapt to his feet and rushed her with his head to her chest before knocking the blade from her hand. He dove for it, took the hilt and threw it with enough force that it buried itself deep into the socket of the woman’s eye. She howled in pain and the knowledge that there was poison on the dagger’s keen point, something Zevran did not doubt.

  
Dyllard had gotten Zevran's pack open and tossed the elf’s knives at him. He then slammed the man who unlocked Zebran's chain against the tree with his shoulder. So far, the big human seemed content to use only his hands as weapons and so far, he’d been very successful with each strike, punch and lunge. Zevran knew, however, that the man was wounded and one of those wounds was a poisoned slice across his arm caused by the woman. It was only a matter of time but soon, Dyllard would no longer be able to fight.

  
The elf killed the third assassin and found himself facing the last one standing, which was temporary to Zevran’s perspective as Dyllard trapped him and the elf buried his dagger deep into the assassin’s chest. There was one left, the man Dyllard punched at the start of the fight and he had regained consciousness. He was crawling across the ground, his hand reaching for a blade, his misshapen face smeared and oozing with blood.

  
Zevran’s foot trapped the dagger and Dyllard, his ability to stand faltering, gripped the man by the back of his shirt and with the other hand, he ripped off the human’s mask. “Who are you and how did you get here? Who sent you?” the big man demanded.

  
Zevran picked up the dagger and leveled it near his face. He had a tiny vial in his fingers, which he turned slightly on its side and dripped a precious drop of a purple liquid on the edge. He then tilted the dagger this way and that to allow the fluid to run along the keen edge and coat it. The blade was then placed against the silent captive’s throat while Dyllard held him.

  
“This is Elixir of Withering. You know what this does, yes? Very painful, very long death. You will go mad and starve before it actually kills you, you see. You answer the question faithfully and I will give you a swift, painless strike to the heart but if you do not, I will slice you in a place not fatal and we will watch as you lose your mind… and control of your bowels. The choice is yours,” purred the elf with a sly smile.

  
The man struggled against Dyllard who, poisoned by the same stuff, was faltering but remained strong. “Fine! Yes, I will answer! The man who hired us is the same man who hire the mercenary, Alsund Mistere. He wants Arainai alive but he has no intention of paying anyone, especially you. We come at a discounted rate due to the Crow’s obsession with having Zevran back to stand for his crimes.”

  
Looking up at Dyllard, Zevran sneered, “Standing for one’s crimes in Antiva means standing while arrows are shot into you at close range or a poisoned dagger is slid in between your ribs. You do have the pleasure of learning why you are being killed, of course, whether or not you are actually guilty.” He looked back down at the captive assassin and raised an eyebrow. “This is your first year as a crow, yes?” At the man’s hesitant nod, Zevran shrugged. “It is now your last as well.” He drove the dagger under the sternum at an upward angle. It pierced the heart, killing the man swiftly and with only mild pain.

  
Once the man was dead, Dyllard dropped to one knee and moaned, his head in his hand. “What’s wrong with me, elf? My head is… It’s spinning! Everything is spinning!”

  
Zevran reached for him and touched his brow lightly. “Elixir of Withering… The cure is elusive but the poison can be waited out if you remain sane and do not do anything stupid. In low dosages, the elixir is a hallucinogenic pleasure drug. Higher dosages will make you forget to eat, drown yourself, throw yourself over cliffs… You will die, of course, if it is not treated.”

  
“Then I am dead…” Dyllard muttered from his palm.

  
Zevran shook his head, a grin on his handsome face. “Oh no, my friend. This Alsund needs to die and I need your help to kill him since as long as he lives I won’t get a moment’s rest. Famed assassin or no, having someone to watch your back… or plow it… is valuable. Now, while you can walk, my friend, we need to get you on your horse and to a nice inn before more assassins arrive to finish what these ones started, yes?”

  
Dyllard could not believe what he was hearing but soon, as darkness claimed him, what Zevran said no longer meant anything to him. It was only when the visions began that Dyllard came to understand the gravity of his situation and how important Zevran would become to him.  
  
TBC…


	3. The Poisoned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are things about himself Drevin Dyllard never wanted to find out...

The great bulk of a ogre loomed over Dyllard, its gaping jaws dripping with foul spit and the stench of rotting, human flesh. It was naked, its massive, pendulous balls swaying slowly as it advanced on the helpless human, calloused hands reaching outward. Screaming, Dyllard dodged it as a giant fist slammed down where he cowered only moments before, the force leaving a shallow crater where the man had been. He threw something nebulous and indistinct but heavy at the creature then watched wide-eyed as it sailed over the creature’s shoulder.  
  
Everything around him was nebulous and inconsistent, objects and terrain shifting like he’d always imagined the Fade would look. Indeed, he felt like he was in some strange dimension with the only solid, real-seeming thing the thing trying to kill him. He was certain that if the ogre got his giant hands on him, he would perish in his sleep. Perhaps that was why he ran, his feet plunging into grass that didn’t bend and water that didn’t splash. He ran toward freedom, or what felt like freedom but found only more of the strange, indeterminate terrain.  
  
The ogre gain on him, it’s huge cock the size of dog as it swayed and flailed with every lunging step. It had blood on its face and hands now and Dyllard knew that if it caught him, it would add his blood to its body as well. Crying out his fear, the helpless man reached for something or someone who was just beyond reach and, to his great surprise, was rewarded by a firm grip. He looked up into the kind, golden-brown eyes of the Antivan who was once his captive. “Save me!” he shrieked.

  
“Save yourself, my friend. Reach out and slay him with your sword,” the elf suggested with a wry smile.  
  
“My sword? I am unarmed!”  
  
“You are quite armed, my powerful friend, or is that a tooth-pick I see at your hip?” The human suddenly looked down at his body and indeed, a long sword with a golden grip and bejeweled pommel, a thing of fantasy, glittered along his thigh. He drew it and found its blade to be just as fantastical as the hilt. After looking back at the elf one more time, he turned and faced the ogre as it came ever closer but seeming in slow motion. He lunged…  
  
The blade swept through the beast in a broad arc that did not spill entrails or even encounter the resistance one would expect from bone and muscle. Instead, the ogre dissipated in a puff of smoke and then, with a gasp, he was back in his own sweat-soaked body.  
  
Zevran, just like in his dream, was hovering over him and in his hand was… a tooth-pick. The elf looked smug. “What was that?” he panted.  
  
“Ah, yes, the nightmares would be a direct effect of the poison, you see, and the reason people usually die. I have tied you to your bed to prevent you from further injury, you see. Sometimes, a welcoming stream or gully might actually be a tub of water or an open window. The poison is not so much poison as a very concentrated drug. The only way to survive its effects is to have someone like me around to prevent you from killing yourself, I said.”  
  
“Wh-why are you helping me?” Dyllard asked with tears streaming down his cheeks.  
  
“I explained that as well but since I am in the mood to repeat myself, I shall. It is because I need you. Simple enough answer, no?” Zevran said, his head cocked to one side, a grin teasing his lips. “And you have a nice body, one I am loath to see misused.”  
  
Dyllard squeezed his eyes shut and dropped the tooth-pick to the wooden floor. “How long… How long will I be like this? With nightmares?”  
  
The elf shrugged, his face already becoming faint in the drugged human’s mind. “Not long, I believe. You are resistant to it, a plus, and you possess a strong will. You have gained consciousness sooner than I expected and though you will fall in and out of it, I would say the worst hallucinations are over. In a couple or four days, you will have purged it from your system with my aid, of course. Now, try to rest, my large friend and I shall gaze luridly at you while you slumber.”  
  
Dyllard tried to speak but Zevran touched his lips to his and once again, the world grew dark, hazy and indistinct…  
  
The next time Drevin Dyllard was faced with certain “death” he entered the fray with a _weapon_ , in reality a toothpick clutched between his thumb and fore-finger, clutched in his hand. This time, his imagination transformed the tiny wooden thing into a majestic great sword he wielded with one hand. His enemy became a rabbit and fled as he advanced on it, his sword held high. It was then that he realized he had complete control over everything he saw and learned how to tap into this control and use it.  
  
It was then, perhaps, that he realized something else; an untapped reservoir of power that he could manipulate any way he pleased. This realization came with it an unexpected reaction from creatures other than the ones dreamed up by the poison and those creatures of the Fade stalked him, curious at first but more determined as they realized what he’d become.

  
Drevin Dyllard was a mage!

  
He awoke with a scream on his lips that caused the owner of the inn to come bounding up the stairs by two and all but broke the door off its hinges in his determination to investigate the sound. Zevran looked up as the portly fellow with his grease-stained apron stood blinking at Dyllard with confusion as he’d half-expected to find a corpse. The warrior, however, was awake and clinging to the elf, his eyes wild and his face contorted in anguish.

  
“Wot’s the bleeding fuck goin’ on here, aye?” the innkeeper demanded.

  
“I told you, my good man, my companion is recovering from a poison of the crows and he is recovering but slowly. You must understand that it is painful for him,” Zevran explained in even tones, a pale eyebrow quirked.

  
Arms crossed, the man frowned and grunted, “Huh. Ye best not be doin’ nothin’ sinister up ‘ere or I’ll…”

  
The elf laid Dyllard back against the bed and rose, a smile on his face and a coin clutched in his hand. He placed his other hand on the innkeeper’s shoulder and slipped the silver into his plump fingers as he murmured between clenched teeth, “…give us the time to recover fully, yes? Yes. Good man. Soon enough my friend will be walking again and we will be out of your hair.” The fellow grunted but he held tight to the coin as Zevran gently pushed him out the door.

  
“I’m a fucking mage, elf! That poison, that drug, it awoke something…” said Dyllard, his eyes narrowed and sweat beading along his brow.

  
“Hmm. And unforeseen complication, indeed, but one we may take advantage of, no?”

  
“No! I am fighter, damn it! I use a sword like a man, not wiggle my fingers at shit and expect it to do things it ain’t supposed to do like some prissy she-male. The only way to get rid of magic is to become one of those shit for brains merchants the mages keep around like pets, right? And I am not going to be chained to a bloody circle, either!” complained Dyllard as Zevran rejoined him on the bed once again, his lids low as he observed the furious human.

  
After a several moments of contemplation, the elf looked away while Dyllard clenched and unclenched his fists. “Hmm. A calamity indeed but only a minor complication. I think… I think we can use it to our advantage and once we have killed he who wishes me dead, I will find you a person who will train you without making you tranquil or sending you to a circle.”

  
Drevin sat up and reached for the pitcher of water by his bed. “So you have me by my balls, then. I either help you or fall prey to magic I don’t want, one way or another.”

  
“I wish I did have you by your balls…! Heh-heh. You forgot about the part where I keep you safe from templars, who will undoubtedly recognize your abilities and lack of formal training. You are now officially an apostate, my big friend. Welcome to the world of being a wanted man,” smiled Zevran as he picked up a glass from the table and held it out to Dyllard.

  
“Whoever heard of a sword-wielding mage?” the human grumbled as he poured water for himself and the elf.

  
“I know one personally who happens to be an apostate and wields a sword with the best of them. I will introduce you to her once we have accomplished our mutual goal. Do we have a deal then?” Zevran asked, his glass held out to the big warrior.

Grunting, Dyllard shrugged and tapped it with his. “Aye, aye, we have a deal, damn it.”TBC…


End file.
